


Boundaries

by Rammstein6669



Category: The Alienist (TV)
Genre: Disability, Episode: s01e04 These Bloody Thoughts, Gen, I haven't read the books yet I'm sorry, Laszlo Kreizler - Freeform, Laszlo is demi-sexual at the absolute LEAST and nobody can tell me otherwise, Masturbation, More like two shit am I right, Mrs. Williams (The Alienist) - Freeform, Past Child Abuse, Past Violence, Self-Reflection, Self-Stimulation, Show background, Somebody stop him, The best of both worlds, Two Shot, can't even bust a nut without it being "for science", mentions of BDSM, typical Laszlo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-16
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-05-07 15:59:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14674512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rammstein6669/pseuds/Rammstein6669
Summary: "I recognized my own weakness, and it gave me pleasure."





	Boundaries

**Author's Note:**

> UHHHHHH basically I watched "These Bloody Thoughts" again and man it is sO FUckiNG GOOD!! ! The squirming and TANGIBLE discomfort fucks me UP. Also, the way he admits that he got pleasure from his weakness is just yES. It made me wonder to what extent he was talking about. Either way, it definitely doesn't go as planned in this fic. 
> 
> Takes place in the past way before the episode, when Mrs. Williams (Ms?) is still his patient. Sorry for the possibly confusing narrative. 
> 
> As usual, it was not beta'd, (and I'm a lazy rat), so apologies in advance for any mistakes. I originally was going to include John in this, but I just wanted to get it done. Maybe I'll add another chapter in the future if I have time. Also my first Alienist fic WHOOO. I've never gotten into a show so quickly before holy SHIT. 
> 
> HOPE Y'ALL LIKE IT!!!

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The moment she had left his office, Laszlo knew that night was the one. 

She had recounted her experiences of the brothel she had worked at, hidden from the common eye, considered risqué even by other adult establishments. She had explained in her never faltering, incredibly detailed way, always attempting to catch him writhing uncomfortably in his seat, even if just the faint twitching of his fingers. However, he had successfully kept his mask held tight to his face, curling his toes in his boots instead of resorting to those semi conscious expressions he often made. 

She had told him of how liberated her clients would leave after their rendezvous, despite the bruises and wounds hidden by neatly tucked garments. She had told him how, in so many instances, more often than not, the men’s weaknesses would serve as the pivotal peak for the night, whether it be a failed marriage or a physical ailment. 

When she spoke of disability, her eyes remained fiercely trained on his own. However, they were both well aware that their thoughts where elsewhere, centered on his right arm that sat limply in his lap. 

At the time, he had ignored the pressing urges, the ever present desire. However, now that he sat alone in his quarters, he simply could do so no longer. The hunger for empathy, the primal _need_ to know why, _how_ , was simply too strong. He could envision what she spoke of well enough, but he needed to feel, to _understand_ why those men continued to visit her, over and over again. 

And so, Laszlo allowed his mind to wander. He sat in his chair beside the fireplace, reduced to nothing more than his pants and undershirt, eyes and mouth closed. He let himself explore the recesses of his memories, cautiously glimpsing in to the part of his mind that even he kept away from. He knew that it was not the same as someone else inflicting the agony of revisitation, but his pride would never allow it. He could never disclose these secrets with anybody else. Even he himself was already almost too much. 

After a few moments of relaxation, a sudden flash of recollections struck him, so sharp it nearly took his breath away. 

_“Du kleiner Schwächling! Wertloser Dreck!”_

A sudden swell of doubt rose in his chest, but he was able to breathe it away. It was much too late to back out now. He took a deep breath and relaxed back into his chair. 

His mind was so busy, a seemingly endless torrent of memories swirling into a barely distinguishable mass. His left hand trembled slightly against his thigh, but the striking contentment in which she had described was simply not present. A momentary bout of recognition made itself present, but even he himself was afraid of the next step required. Regardless, he breathed calmly as he began to undo the buttons on his shirt, not concerned about the time it required as he normally was inclined to be. Once the soft fabric fell open against his chest, he took a moment to compose himself, his breathing calm. He slowly began to work himself out of his shirt, purposefully keeping his gaze towards the floor. When it slid off of his right arm and gracelessly to the floor, he finally allowed himself a glance to the side. 

He had learned to cope with his disability through ignorance, at least for the mental aspect of it. If he ever did fully acknowledge the lameness of his right arm, it was most certainly never with the companionship of the uncomfortable memories. 

Now, looking at his arm as he let himself indulge in his deepest recollections, he felt an immediate sense of embarrassment, almost as if everyone he knew could feel and see what he was doing at that very moment. For a brief second he considered simply redressing and turning in. However, something compelled him to continue, even if he wasn’t sure what. Perhaps it was his mind convincing him that this was necessary in order to understand that which he could not.  

Using his left hand, he slowly traversed the length of his thigh, the fabric smooth beneath his soft hands. His breathing quickened as he eventually made his way towards the seam of his pants, the slowly growing coil of heat beneath them. 

Pleasure itself was not foreign to Laszlo. He derived pleasure from helping his patients, from _understanding_ them and their ailments. However, physical pleasure was unfamiliar. He had long since admitted to himself that the world of romanticism and sexuality was not one he belonged in. His inability to trust and communicate had decided that for him. On incredibly rare occasions he would allow himself the reprieve of stimulation, on nights when Cyrus was out running errands and Mary was elsewhere. It was always quick and purely physical, his mind never straying far from the task at hand. The evidence was immediately cleaned away with a kerchief that would be rid of soon after. The only other sign that it had ever happened was perhaps a bead of sweat along his hairline, or the faintest of creases on his vest. The act was, for a man of his status, primitive, and even guilt inducing at times. 

Now, however, the act was filthy. Debasing and debauching, embarrassing and animalistic. The only thought that allowed him to continue, to take himself in his hand and to stroke fervently, was the understanding that man was no more than an animal, regardless of what people desired to believe. Desire has always been present and always will be, never to be completely forgotten. 

Laszlo’s lips parted to release a heavy exhalation as he continuing with the, not particularly well practiced, motions of his wrist. His mind drew back to his conversation with _her_ , and he forced himself to open his eyes, to glance at his arm. He stared at it, looking at every single detail it had to offer, so unlike the furtive glances he normally cast that way when he had to. The muscle was so degenerated from disuse that the bones and tendons stood out sharply, tenting the smooth skin. 

_“Sei leise und geh ins Bett, verdammt!”_

The memory made his hand falter in its movements, a grimace arising on his face. He forced himself to continue, but the seething words from the past came with increased vigor. 

_“Du bist eine Peinlichkeit für diese Familie!”_

A noise of choked pain escaped his throat, his eyebrows knitting as his chest tightening inexplicably. He felt panic begin to claw his way into his lungs, and he suddenly found it difficult to breathe. He swore he could feel the sensation of fingertips digging into his right arm, so physical he was sure there would be bruises. He nonetheless continued the motions of his left hand, his arousal clashing vehemently with the agonizing thoughts that vibrated within his mind. His heart rate grew quicker, the blood rushing loudly in his ears. He thought of her yet again, how she spoke of liberation through realization, through acceptance, and yet all he could feel was pain. He forced himself to look back at his arm, to witness his weakness, his embarrassment, his failure. The buzzing in his head was comparable with a terribly executed orchestral piece, the crescendo collapsing into a blurred mass of screeches and off pitch notes. Part of him cried for silence, for this to be over. Yet there was another side that willed him to continue, to endure as he had always managed to do.  His hand moved with increased vigor, almost as if it was moving of its own accord. 

_“Du hättest nie geboren werden sollen.”_

A loud cry escaped his throat, a sound so inflected with emotion it would have surely made another turn away with discomfort. The agony clashed with the pleasure as he reached his peak, the muscles in his thighs locking as it occurred. The influx of feelings completely overloaded him, and he found it hard to breathe as he spilled onto his hand. The heat of the fireplace beside him suddenly felt so unbearable, almost as if he was burning. The sight of his weak arm was too much to bear along with the disappointment and humiliation, and his loathing pushed him to his knees below the chair. His chest surged with desperate breaths, and his throat was tight with barely constrained tears. He pulled his arm closer to his body and shielded it with the other, like an animal nursing its wounds. He remained unmoving in that position, save for his trembling, until the fire slowly began to decrease before him. After a long moment, after he had carefully repaired the mask of indifference and detachment that had shattered mere moments ago, he slowly pushed himself to his feet, swaying faintly. It wasn’t long before he had crawled into his bed, ignoring the disarray of his night dressings, and closed his eyes with faint relief. 

For the first time in many, many years, Laszlo Kreizler dreamt of his childhood. 

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**Author's Note:**

> German Translations:
> 
>  _"Du kleiner Schwächling! Wertloser Dreck!”_  
>  "You little weakling! Worthless filth!"
> 
>  _“Sei leise und geh ins Bett, verdammt!”_  
>  "Be quiet and go to bed, goddamnit!"
> 
>  _“Du bist eine Peinlichkeit für diese Familie!”_  
>  "You're an embarrassment to this family!"
> 
>  _“Du hättest nie geboren werden sollen.”_  
>  "You should have never been born."
> 
> (i'm sorry)


End file.
